One shot with vague spoilers towards for the manga. Has no relevance to the plot nor is it my prediction of Hellsing's ending. Purely for random Walter goodness. Hope you enjoy.
It had all been so perfect.
Where had he gone wrong? What misstep had cost him everything? Why couldn't he take it back? The questions seemed meaningless, now. The answers themselves could not change fate, or erase the inescapable transgressions Walter Dornez had enacted against his former Master. Everything was suddenly so very different than he had intended it to be. And he had no one to blame but himself.
Surely if he thought about it, he could let this indescribably powerful hatred focus it's weight on the head of the sharp-eyed, quick-tongued man in a white coat who'd bore that insufferably cocky grin all the way to his death. Surely if Walter wished, he could blame the man's subordinates, from the blood-stained doctor to the werewolf he'd fought in his past to the unnervingly persistent catboy. Surely if he wanted, Walter could console himself with thoughts that it wasn't entirely his doing.
But the hollow pain assured him that in his heart, even he would know how pathetic such excuses would be.
The smell of smoke from fires left to let themselves burn out mingled with the other scents of a newborn England. The stench of decay, of death, of blood and sorrow and pain hung so heavy in the air it was nearly palpable. Debris lay in every direction where once great buildings had stood, rubble in place of street corners Walter had traversed all too frequently in his lifetime. Nothing was recognizable, now. Between the bodies of the innocent and the damned, the ruins of zeppelins fallen from skies clouded over by smoke and haze, and what was left to attest to London's desecrated beauty, there was only him.
He bent down, letting his knees hit the dirt with a heavy thump that didn't even register in his head. A gloved hand reached forward - Walter did not start at it's youthful appearance, not this time. He tenderly stroked the damp strands of blonde from the face of the woman sprawled across the ground before him, and his fingers came away with blood. Her porcelain doll features were marred by cuts and scrapes and scratches, by splatters of crimson that he could not stroke away. Her clothing was disheveled, her sword shattered, yet Integra Hellsing was no less beautiful or striking than she'd ever been. Even with the pallor of death heavy in her face, she was perfect. Flawless.
Walter gently guided her head into his lap, cradling it to his chest as he had when she was no more than an infant. He could remember those days so vividly... yet the memories were detached, distant... strange, as if they didn't truly belong to him. He felt like a man masquerading in another's body, in another man's life. The girl he had seen grow before his very eyes, who he loved with the intensity he would bestow upon his own daughter, was as cold as he was. She was gone. All that was left of her was a shell - and was he so different? Was Walter C. Dornez, the Walter she had known, not truly dead?
He kissed her forehead with lips trembling. He knew he didn't deserve to hold her any longer. With a gentility he would grace on the most fragile of things, he laid her down, removing his vest and slowly draping it over her face. The last of the Hellsing lineage had died with honor and grace that would go unnoticed for the remainder of history - a history which could very well cease to exist. There was no one left to care, no one alive to record the bloody end of a world torn apart by the very monsters feeding on it's core. There was nothing left.
Skies darkened on the last day of man.
Dusk approached. With it, all traces of Walter crumbled away to nothing.